


step back and fall to the ground

by Zercalo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Babysitting, Baking, Fundraising, M/M, events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-07 01:21:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14660349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zercalo/pseuds/Zercalo
Summary: The baseball team and the lacrosse team of Beacon Hills High have a long tradition of arguing over the stupidest of things, which usually culminates in a huge annual brawl in the locker room while Coach is pretending his office is soundproof.This year, though. This year, the captain of the lacrosse team is Scott McCall and he has a plan to channel the fierce rivalry into something productive.orStiles is prone to self-sabotage.





	step back and fall to the ground

**Author's Note:**

> As long as you're not expecting anything to make sense or to be grammatically (or factually) correct, you're good to proceed.

People are looking at Stiles like it’s his fault, which is not fair. The only thing he’s guilty of is naivete and trust that Scott would never use his own words against him. 

(This happened last week. They were in Stiles’ bedroom. Scott was idly browsing the bookshelf (he was supposed to be doing some math problems) as Stiles Facebook-stalked some of the baseball players from their school, looking for inspiration and shirtless photos. Derek Hale’s collection of puppy pictures proved distracting enough that Scott had to call him like three times before Stiles was able to focus on his slightly frowning face, 

“Huh?” 

“Nothing, I just  - how would you go about bringing together two groups of people that don’t like one another? Like, how would you make Gryffindors and Slytherins be friendlier, for example?” 

Obviously, Stiles had some thoughts about that.)

So okay, maybe this is Stiles’ fault, in a way. But people don’t know about it, so there is no reason to look at him like this. 

The principal is saying, “And whoever wins will get a special reward. Go on, now. Give me your ideas.” 

“A bake sale,” Scott fires instantly, because nothing makes more sense than a bunch of jocks baking cookies. 

The principal nods and writes it down, and Stiles hisses, “What’s the special reward?” 

Scott frowns, mimicking the principal’s note-taking like ‘bake sale’ is hard to remember or something, “We haven’t decided. What do you think? A dinner at _Il Desco_?” 

Damn, that sounds worth the hassle. “I still don’t see why you would do this to us. To _me_.” 

“A car wash?” someone says unenthusiastically, probably caving under the principal’s unnerving stare. Everyone ignores the suggestion, because it’s practically winter. 

“I’m doing this _for_ you, Stiles,” Scott says, eagerly scanning the crowd for ideas. “I suggested the bake sale, didn’t I?” 

“You suggested it because you know we’ll win! It’s not a favor to me if I have to do all the work!” 

Scott blinks at him, “We? We can’t be on the same team. Haven’t you been listening to the principal?” 

Well, not really. “What? _Why?_ ” 

“Because we’re on the lacrosse team together. The point is to work with the baseball team so we would get friendlier and stop fighting.” It dawns on Stiles how much this entire thing is actually his fault. Scott smiles brightly. “Trust me, I got this.” 

He’s being really annoying, is the thing. Smug, even, as much as Scott can be smug. On top of things, organizing events and making peace and, apparently, doing favors for unsuspecting friends. 

Stiles doesn’t trust him and his serene smile one bit. 

“We should do crafts,” he speaks up just as the principal is about to give up on their suggestions. People around him hiss for him to shut up - his people, his teammates. The baseball players just look confused. “And a yard sale. School yard sale. For the shi- things we make. And the old clothes and the books and stuff.” 

The principal is nodding in approval. He is young-ish and therefore motivated, or something.

Scott still has that serene look on his face. 

Stiles grits his teeth. “Chore coupons! We should sell coupons, each worth a chore like painting a room or mowing or something.” 

The principal is writing it down, still nodding, and Scott is still smiling. The hissing of the lacrosse team intensifies, and some members of the baseball team are starting to look scared. 

Stiles is on a roll. “Game day! Teachers and parents vs students! Er, pancake breakfast! Battle of the bands, classical vs rock band!” They don’t even have a rock band, they have two guys who own guitars and a chick who thinks she can sing. Plenty of cellists, for some reason. “Talent show! Scavenger hunt! Charity ba-...!” 

Scott finally manages to put a hand over Stiles’ mouth. He is still wearing a smile, but it looks strained now. 

The principal keeps trying to frantically write everything down. “Good, all good ideas. Excellent initiative, Mr. Stilinski. I don’t know if all these events can be done the way we discussed it, Mr. McCall, but I guess we should see about...” 

Stiles is being dragged toward the exit, firmly and without any pretense at subtlety. “I’ll take care of everything, I’ll form teams and organize - stuff,” Scott promises hastily. “I’ll post the names on the board by the end of the day! Don’t worry!” 

And they are in the hallway 

“Organize _that_ ,” Stiles says gleefully in the empty hallway. 

“That’s what a guy gets when he tries to do you a favor,” Scott says, rubbing his head. “I was gonna pair you up with Derek Hale and now I’m thinking maybe Isaac Lahey - you deserve it.” 

“What - _wh_ y -” Stiles shuts up about it before Scott actually points out his mooning over and the very very subtle stalking of Derek Hale and settles on, “But you like Isaac.” 

“Which is the _only_ reason you won’t be stuck on with him for this. Come on, you have to help me.” 

“I can’t help you put together that list, oh my God. Then he’s gonna know!” 

“Well, what am I supposed to do? I don’t even know where to start with all this!” 

The door behind them opens and both teams follow the principal into the hallway. Stiles looks up at the man, thinking this cannot really be on Scott to organize, but the principal just gives Scott a serious nod of acknowledgment. Stiles tells himself that yelling after the man that Scott doesn’t bring in half of his homework because he simply forgets he’s had any won’t solve anything. 

The teams glare at them, but Stiles overhears someone from the baseball team say, “I don’t know, the scavenger hunt sounds like fun.” 

And Isaac asks Derek, “Do you think drawing count as a craft? I’m not bad with charcoal.”   

“I like the idea of a battle of the bands, but we’d have to make it brass vs string,” Derek answers, but he glares at Stiles when he catches him looking. 

His girlfriend if one of the celists, of course he’d be into that. Stiles narrows his eyes at him. 

Scott elbows him. “How am I supposed to organize a scavenger hunt? I’ve never even participated in one!” 

Why did Stiles ever think wiping that serene smile off his face was a good idea? Now he’s stuck with organizing all these nonsense events, like the few pieces of equipment for their two teams that really do need replacing cost that much. Even if they manage to make this work - which, there’s no way - where will the extra money go, anyway?

“I have an idea,” he says and Scott deflates like a pinched balloon. 

With Scott in tow, Stiles finds Lydia Martin after only ten minutes of looking around the school. He leans over her desk and she frowns at his hand where he’s holding onto an edge with distaste. 

“We need help,” he says. 

“No.” 

“Scott volunteered to organize a fundraiser.” Lydia looks suitably horrified, if only for a barest of seconds. 

“Not my problem.” 

“I’m trying to make it your problem. What will it take? 15%? 20%?” 

“Of?” 

“Everything we get? The principal approved a whole lot of events, you can choose from them - do you really want Scott to organize a pancake breakfast? The game day? The _charity ball?_ Do you?” 

Lydia opens her phone and looks through it with a frown. Finally, she says, “When?” 

Stiles looks at Scott, who looks panicked, “I thought we were only going to do a bake sale!” 

Lydia says, slowly, “What did the principal say?” 

“We were talking about doing it this weekend, that’s it. I was just supposed to make the teams work together and maybe push together some tables to put the cookies on.” 

Lydia looks at Stiles, clearly hopeful he’ll make more sense, “He was working on improving the house unity by making the lacrosse Lancasters work with the baseball Yorks. We’re supposed to do all the events in pairs, one baseball team member with one lacrosse team member.” 

She looks back at Scott, offers, “70% for me to do what I want with and you team up Jackson with Greenburg.” 

Scott takes it, gladly, even though both Jackson and Greenburg are on the lacrosse team together and by the end of the day there is a schedule and the list of names - Jackson and Greenburg - Lydia holds a grudge like no one’s business - and Scott himself with Isaac Lahey - surprise, surprise. 

And Stiles and Derek Hale. 

Right.

 

***

 

Scott miscalculated. He thought that just because Stiles has a bit of an obsession with Derek Hale, that must mean Stiles will be glad to be paired with him. And he was, at first. While it was all still a theory, something distant and unachievable. 

But the day after the list comes out, Derek calls, “Stilinski!” across the hall with a very, very deep frown - presumably so they could make arrangements because Derek is a functional human being - and Stiles runs away. 

Well, he doesn’t _run_ \- okay, maybe just up the stairs - but he does flee and hide and spend the rest of his week repeating the process. 

In the meantime, Lydia obtains help and minions and everyone are a little excited things are finally happening at school. Scott is helping her every step of the way, that stupid smile back now that he’s got someone to tell him what to do. They don’t often do things like this in Beacon Hills High School because their previous principal wasn’t in his office often enough to approve basically anything and now there’s gonna be games and baked goods and a ball. 

On Friday, Derek doesn’t try to stop, call or ambush Stiles once. Stiles is obviously profoundly relieved - and deeply sad. He’ll bake extra stuff this evening, in Derek’s name too. Dad will help him bring it over in the morning and everything will be fine because he won’t be putting himself in the situation where he can say something embarrassing and he will not have to die from shame. 

After the classes end, he waves at Scott and gets inside his car. Before he can start the engine, though, the passenger door opens and Derek gets inside. Without asking. 

Stiles stares at him, wondering how he hasn’t predicted and prevented this from happening. 

Derek glares at him, “Drive!” 

He should ask for an explanation, demand answers - but Stiles keeps quiet, because he knows why. Just because he thought Derek gave up when he, in fact, has simply changed tactics, doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what’s going on. 

So he does his best to ignore the passenger seat is occupied and drives straight home. All he has to do is remember that he tends to scare and repel people when he talks and silence comes easy. Derek is quiet too. 

When they arrive, Stiles parks into the driveway and Derek follows him out, eyebrows raised in challenge, and inside the house. 

Dad’s home. 

“Stiles - oh, you’re having a friend over,” dad says. “A friend that’s not Scott. Huh.” 

Derek smiles brightly, like a hyena or something, offers his hand, “I’m Derek Hale, sir. We have a bake sale to prepare for tomorrow. I hope you don’t mind.” 

Dad takes his hand with narrowed eyes and Stiles snorts. Charm turned up to twelve in dad’s line of business usually means bullshit. He keeps shaking Derek’s hand sharply and firmly until Derek actually looks at Stiles, about to start panicking. 

“I told you about it,” Stiles takes mercy, opens a cabinet and takes out the leftover tarts from when he was trying out recipes when dad was on shift. “About Scott preparing his application for the peace corps? Derek’s on the baseball team.” 

Dad’s listening, and the tarts are proving to be the intended distraction so he lets go of Derek. 

“So you’re going to be… _baking_?” 

He makes the word sound naughty. Stiles pushes the tupperware of tarts towards him. “I was thinking these. Come on, tell me what you think.” 

Dad takes them, the entire tupperware, orders, “Stay downstairs,” and leaves the house. He’s not even on shift that afternoon, Stiles has no idea why he’s running away like Derek might try to eat his tarts. 

Of course, dad leaving has downsides - Stiles once again has to focus on Derek Hale. Derek, who is standing in the middle of his kitchen, looking lost, confused and terrified. 

“Well, that was my dad.” 

Derek nods. 

“And I got everything I need and stuff - you can leave now, I’ll bring the goods to school in the morning. Promise.” 

“We’re supposed to do this together.” 

“Yes, but we don’t have to. Okay? I can bake - I’ve got this.” 

Derek glares at him, rebalanced, “I can bake too. I don’t want McCall and Lydia Martin on my case - we’re doing this together.” 

Stiles would argue more, but Derek is really pretty and pissed off and wants to be in the same room with him, so he shrugs. He opens another cabinet and takes out the rest of the tarts. He pushes them toward Derek. 

“I tried this recipe yesterday. It’s hazelnut.” He watches Derek bite into one and struggle to keep a neutral face. “Well, I hope you like them, because I’m making them for tomorrow. 

Derek puts the second half of the tart on the table, says, “I’m making whoopies.” 

“I don’t have whatever you need to make them,” Stiles lies. 

Derek smiles a big, wolfish smile that is a danger to society and Stiles’ ability to stay upward without help. He takes his phone out and calls someone, keeping his eyes on Stiles and the grin on his face. He says, “You can have the car for the rest of the weekend if you do me a favor now.” 

Half an hour later, Cora and Derek Hale are unloading a shitpile of ingredients and tins and bowls into Stiles’ kitchen. Stiles gapes at the sheer amount of it. “Are you actually trying for the dinner at _Il Desco_ ?”

Cora snorts. 

“Yes,” Derek says, frowning at her. 

“There are easier ways to take someone out on a date, idiot,” Cora tells her brother, not unkindly. 

“Hey! There is no taking anyone on dates! He’s my partner,” Stiles snaps. When Derek turns his frown at him, he adds, carefully, “...In this?” 

Cora looks happy enough to float away, which neither suits her face nor her reputation. She offers a piece of sage-sounding advice before she leaves,  “Mom’s coming to school tomorrow and everything - so make sure you actually bake something, okay?” 

Once she’s gone, in Derek’s stupid fancy car, Derek rolls the tablecloth into a long checkered tablecloth snake and places it across the middle of the table. “That’s your side,” he says, like it’s his kitchen or something. “Keep your shit there.” 

And they bake. It’s incredibly awkward and oddly competitive. Intense even, at moments. Stiles goes the extra mile to moan, sigh and otherwise make sure it’s known his tarts are coming along nicely. Derek hates when he does it. Hates it - there’s no other way to put it. 

And Derek really can bake. That was not something Stiles needed to know, ever. It somehow makes him like three times more attractive. Five times, once he somehow makes his ‘leftover’ ingredients into delicious-looking cupcakes with two different types of chocolate frosting on top. 

Hey don’t talk much, but it gets easier, being in the same room with Derek.

“I’ll get my stuff after I get my car back,” Derek says once the dishes are done, just before he leaves - Cora picks him up, impatient and honking her way through the short wait. “They better be there in the morning, every single one of them.” 

Stiles nods at him solemnly and closes the door with some force. Then he goes and eats two of Derek’s whoopsies and one cupcake. He can’t stomach more than that because he ate a few of the tarts before, but it’s fine - dad will make a dent into it when he comes home. 

Dad helps him in the morning to take it all to the school, smiling like he never gets to eat baked goods at home. Derek is already there - and so is his entire family, it seems. It’s hard to tell if they’re all there, there are too many people for that. But they are here, guarding an empty table at the prime spot of the hall with loud noise and blinding beauty. 

Stiles feels very brave when he heads that way, even though he’s with his dad and his dad legally carries a gun. 

Talia Hale sniffs at him, looking a little like she’s confused a creature such as Stiles exists on this planet with her. Her eyes catch Derek’s whoopsies and then she’s suddenly helping and smiling and charming Stiles’ dad with her gorgeous buck teeth smile and shiny black hair. 

Not that Stiles doesn’t get it, he does. 

The Hales in general are a piece of work. Derek’s uncle, Mr. Hale, tries to bargain for a lower price on the account of being a teacher, like this is the flea market or something, and then acts all proud when Derek just tells him to go way. Laura cuts people’s way off without a backward glance, forcing them to walk closer to Derek and Stiles’ table. Derek’s eleven-year-old cousin or nephew or something goes over to the next table and loudly sneezes all over their muffins and pies. He makes it look like an accident.

Stiles kind of loves them all, honestly. And he fears them a lot. 

Derek looks somewhere between resigned and fearful, which is not a good look on him. Stiles mutters in his direction, “We’re selling more tarts than whoopsies.” 

He has no idea if that’s true or not, but Derek’s eyes narrow to slits and he looks kinda taller all of the sudden. “You’re on,” he snaps and huh. Maybe Siles is in the process of getting into a new hobby. He’ll call it Derek-baiting. 

Then things get really weird because Talia Hale waves every other mom she knows and praises Stiles’ tarts until they cave in and buy some. On the other hand, dad bullies at least three deputies into buying Derek’s cupcakes. (Stiles unflinchingly starts asking for more money at that point, because he obviously can.) 

“Do these people even know how to play favorites?” Stiles asks Derek, suspiciously eying everyone else there to offer unnecessary support 

“We are supposed to be a _team_ ,” Derek stresses through this teeth. 

“Oh. Right. Still, almost all the tarts sold out.” 

“You ate half of what you made. And I made more in the first place.”

“Good thing you did too,” Stiles generously admits. “Otherwise, we’d lose this so badly.” 

Derek glares at him suspiciously for another minute before another customer - someone’s older sister, with a smile and a cleavage - comes to coo at his baking abilities. Derek smiles at her and Stiles deliberately crushes a side of her whoopsie when he packs it. 

Other than that, the bake sale is a complete success, except for when Jackson’s and Greenberg's table full of weirdly shaped cookies and store-bought pies somehow end up on the floor, under their flipped-over table. No one knows what exactly happened and Lydia, on the other side of the hall, doesn’t even turn to look. 

The visitors are offered chore coupons in the hallway as they leave the bake sale. There are hundreds of bright pink cards but Lydia offersa two-for-one deal for everyone who bought more than two baked items so they all go. Every single chore coupon is sold. 

Lydia is practically glowing the next day as she announces that working in pairs was obviously an excellent idea and they will keep the system. For now. 

That last part she says looking at Jackson. Stiles hopes, he really does, that the douchebag mans up and apologizes while they’re all still alive and relatively un-embarrassed. 

Derek doesn’t come for this baking stuff even though he clearly has his car back on Monday. And his face does a complicated twitch when he sees Stiles around the hallways - something that probably means he’s trying to figure out how to go back to pretending they don’t know each other. He always ends up nodding sharply, which is a win, probably. 

There is a huge board of events in the hallway across the chem classroom and smaller timetables on every notice board in school. They look cheerful, efficiently color-coded and Stiles cannot avoid them no matter how much he’d like to. 

They are doing the first round of the chores that weekend. Lydia is a smart girl so she gives the counterfoils to Derek and sends him after Stiles. Chores are easier to do with two sets of hands and all. 

“We could split the stack,” Stiles offers, reasonably. 

“No.” 

“She won’t know.” 

“Follow the rules,” Derek tells him strictly and then goes a little weird in the face. “Some of these are for my mom. And some are for _your father_.” 

He sounds more scared when he says ‘your father’ which Stiles really doesn’t think is fair. Derek’s mom is obviously beautiful and terrible like the dawn. 

“Let’s do the ones that aren’t, first.” 

It’s a weirdly companionable moment when they agree to go to Coach’s house first. They use Derek’s car because the jeep, apparently, stinks. Stiles is all for not buying extra gas but he doesn’t miss the chance to complain. 

“My car is always well aired-out.” This is a complete truth because one of the windows got stuck open. “And your car stinks like leather and,” he turns the air-freshener to check, “Mojito.” 

“That must be terrible for you,” Derek deadpans. 

“You’re not supposed to have mojitos. You’re underage.” 

Derek stops at the red light, rolls his eyes. “Is your father going to arrest me?” 

“Stop saying ‘your father’ like he’s Lucius Malfoy, please,” Stiles says, waving at a little girl in the backseat of the car next to them. She frowns at him disapprovingly. “That doesn’t even fit thematically.” 

“I _can’t_ ,” Derek hisses, sounding a little distressed about it. 

The Coach opens his front door wearing a bathrobe and a sock. Both have polka dots but they don’t match in color or size. 

Derek seems twitchy about the whole thing so Stiles fakes cheer, “We’re here to do your chores for you, Coach!” 

The guy glares at him. “Why?” 

Stiles glances at Derek. He should clearly be talking because the coach likes him better and he’s now had time to adjust. 

But Derek is looking back at Stiles like he’s waiting to see what is the next trick he’s got up his sleeve, so Stiles hazards, somewhere in coach’s direction, “Because you bought a chore coupon at the bake sale last week?” 

“Yes! Yes, stay right there,” the coach says, brightening, and closes the door. 

“I don’t like this,” Stiles says slowly, suddenly full of dread. 

Derek stoically waits for the door to open again. The Coach has his hands full, which means that the only thing that’s keeping that robe closed is a loose belt. 

“I thought there’s gonna be just one of you. You,” he tells Derek, “Put this on. And you hold this.” 

Stiles takes the large yellow sign before it hits him on the head. Derek puts on a huge yellow shirt. It messes up his hair, so Stiles looks away quickly. 

“Now go stand in front of the City Hall for two hours.” 

With that, Coach closes the door into their faces, this time with an air of finality. 

“I’m pretty sure everyone who works there is already home for the day,” Derek mutters, trying to fix his new shirt so it doesn’t fall off. 

His new shirt that says, in huge hot pink letters, ‘Baseball SUCKS!!’ 

Stiles is so beyond entertained and gleeful, he can’t even laugh. His sign says, in uneven green letters, ‘Just say NO to baseball! Today!’ 

“I had no idea Coach had such strong feelings about baseball.” 

Derek did have some idea, because there is horror on his face before he even looks down at his shirt. 

“This is a nightmare,” he says, kind of faintly. “You are a nightmare and this is all your fault.” 

Stiles is well aware of this so instead of defending himself, he takes his phone out and takes a few pictures and sends them to Scott. Derek doesn’t even notice. He seems truly shaken he has to protest against baseball in the middle of the town. 

He dutifully drives them there, though. It’s nearing dusk and it’s cold outside. Not many people are around. Derek slowly unbuckles himself and opens the door, like he’s finally figuring out he should procrastinate. 

They stand, awkwardly, at the bottom of the staircase leading up to the entrance to the Town Hall. Derek seems to be trying to resist covering his eloquent chest. 

As soon as some people appear at the beginning of the small park across the street, Stiles raises his sign and yells, as loudly as he can, “Baseball sucks!” 

Derek ducks his head and steps back - until he’s effectively hiding behind Stiles, the chicken. 

“Shut up!” he says. 

“Nope,” Stiles shakes the sign and looks straight at three young boys going about their business, guileless. “Baseball sucks!” 

“You suck,” one of the kids yells back at hi. 

“You really do suck,” Derek hisses behind him. “Shut up!” 

“I do not,” Stiles tells him imperiously. “Not in the town square, anyway. Baseball sucks so much! Just say no to baseball! Because it sucks!” 

“That’s not very convincing,” Derek finally mutters, after listening to Stiles yell the same things over and over. “You don’t even have any arguments.” 

“I have the most important arguments spelled out for me in pink. Baseball sucks and you suck because you can play it and I can’t.” 

“You want to play baseball? Do you even know how?” 

Stiles throws a glare at Derek over his shoulder, “I played baseball with you all through the middle school, you asshole.” 

Derek doesn’t answer anything for a while, so Stiles looks back at him. He looks sorry, oh God, even that looks good on him. “You did. I remember. Until you got hurt.” 

“Until I got someone else hurt, actually. With my bat.” 

“You weren’t even bad at it,” Derek says and Stiles wants to address this, he does, but there are two ladies in high heels and fur coats and he cannot miss this opportunity. They look vaguely familiar, too. 

He starts yelling again. One of them takes out her phone, glaring over at them. 

“Mission accomplished,” Stiles tells Derek. “You can sit down now.” 

Derek is hesitating to do so but Stiles doesn’t care. The stupid sign is heavy. “What just happened?” 

“Now we wait.” 

They do wait, quiet, probably because neither can process that fact that Derek may have given him a complement earlier. Fortunately, Stiles’ calculations were right and a cruiser stops near the bench they’re sharing awkwardly after just a few minutes. 

Dad rolls down the window and looks at them. “Stiles. Derek Hale.”

“It’s your father,” Derek says woodenly, but with a wild look in his eyes. Like maybe he wants to bolt. 

“Stop saying that,” Stiles mutters to him, pulling him by the large yellow sleeve toward the cruiser. “Dad.” 

“What are you boys up to?” Dad asks mildly, but he’s eyeing Derek and his shirt. 

“Doing our chores, obviously,” Stiles dutifully informs him. “Coach wanted us to protest baseball in front of the Town Hall for two hours.” 

Dad stops eyeballing Derek to tiredly rub his eyes, like an old man that he definitely would not be if he ate his greens. “How many coupons did he buy?” 

“We were only meant to do this one thing for him.” 

Dad gets out of the car, opens the back door. “This protest is officially over. We’ve had complaints. And there is no one here to hear your protest, except maybe the janitor, so get in.” 

“Uh, Derek’s car is…” 

“Move, boys.” 

Derek is the first to get into the back seat, even as he anxiously asks, “Are we under arrest? Mom is going to kill me.” 

Dad makes sure only Stiles can see when he smirks ever so slightly. Stiles makes sure he’s not smiling when he gets inside after Derek. 

“No touching back there,” Dad says strictly as he slides back into the driver’s seat. 

“We’ll try to contain ourselves,” Stiles tells him with an eye roll, even though he doesn’t really want to contain himself because Derek obviously needs a hug. 

“Sir?” Derek says, halfway out of his skin. “Are we under arrest?” 

“No. You are going to do some chores for me now.” 

“You’re not on our list,” Stiles attempts a lie because Derek has somehow become even more upset after he found out he isn’t arrested. 

“I’ll take it up with Ms. Martin. Seatbelts.” 

The station is right around the corner, so they arrive before they get a chance to warm up. Fifteen minutes later, they are geared up with mops and gloves and cleaning the jail cell. 

“Don’t they pay someone to do this?” Derek demands, but not loudly enough for anyone else to hear. 

“Normally,” Stiles admits. “But how else are you going to learn no to do illegal shit? This is for your own benefit, Hale.”

“Me? I’m a straight A student. And an athlete! I volunteer as a tutor, I’m in the Big Brother program and I maintain trails in the Preserve on weekends!” 

“I’m swooning,” Stiles assures him, indeed feeling a little faint because on top of all that, Derek also bakes. “But that just means you need it more. Your type, you stuck up, overachieving people, when you go off the rails, that’s spectacular to watch.” 

“I’m not going to go off rails,” Derek says distastefully, picking up a napkin stained in a vaguely familiar way with the tips of his gloved fingers. “I’ve got - outlets.” 

“Peggy,” Stiles nods wisely, because school gossip and snooping. 

“Who?” 

Stiles frowns at Derek who is frowning back at him. “Your girlfriend?” 

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Derek says, looking at him seriously, like he’s not destroying Stiles’ research integrity with every word. “I don’t even know anyone with that name.”

Oddly breathless, Stiles asks, “Boyfriend?” 

Derek shakes his head. “Boyfriend named Peggy?” 

“Right,” Stiles says, thinking they should probably go back to work. Staring at Derek is much more fun, though. “What outlets, then?” 

Derek blinks and then smiles, just a little, “I meant video games. Violent video games.” 

“You’re smiling at me,” Stiles points out. 

“You were smiling at me first,” Derek counters, which. Huh. Maybe he has started first. Because Derek doesn’t have a girlfriend and didn’t freak out at the suggestion that he might have a boyfriend. That’d be enough to make anyone smile. 

A door opens and shuts somewhere and shutters the moment. If that was a moment. Stiles is not sure if that was a moment because he may have possibly stopped breathing at some point and is now suffering from oxygen deprivation. 

Derek finally throws away the dirty tissue. They carefully keep each to his own half of the cell until it’s as clean as two high schoolers can make it. 

After they take off the gloves, Derek checks his phone, sighs, “We’re babysitting instead of my mom tomorrow evening.” 

“Uh, okay?” 

“It’s my uncle’s kids so…” Derek waves vaguely, like he’s not sure what to say. “Maybe wear something old?”

“Right,” says Stiles and it’s awkward. He doesn’t know why it’s awkward all of the sudden. They were exchanging words and smiles, so it shouldn’t be awkward. “You should leave through the back door. I’ll go tell dad we’re done. That way he can’t give us anything else to do tonight.” And Derek doesn’t have to face him again, the weirdo. 

“Thanks,” Derek says and leaves through the back door, very quickly. 

Stiles only stops to send a long and eloquent hate message in all caps to Scott before he finds his dad to inform him that Derek has totally bolted. 

Scott sends a winky face back.

 

***

 

Stiles is so nervous the next day he doesn’t even realize Derek gave him an absolute minimum of information until his screen lights up with a new message from Derek Hale. 

The reason Stiles has Derek is number is, well, he’s a stalker and he has his ways. He never used it, though. And no one actually knows. And how and why Derek has his will remain a mystery because how do you even ask something hypocritical like that? 

The message now says, “My uncle’s house at 5 pm” and lists an address. 

It’s an address for a house in Beacon Hill’s small and somewhat extremely rich neighborhood. A few years back, a bunch of millionaires came up with an idea what forests beat beach and came and made these huge summer houses - only to figure out that Beacon Hill has three decent restaurants in total and one nightclub. They got bored quickly, but the houses remained as a memento of that total misfire - empty and collapsing onto themselves due to the lack of maintenance. 

Some houses - less fancy, admittedly - are inhabited. Peter Hale’s house is one of them. There is plenty of room for Stiles to park so he pulls into the driveway. 

Peter Hale, also known as Mr. Hale and Stiles’ history teacher, opens the door with a smile. This endeavor is obviously not off to a good start. 

“Come in, Stiles,” Peter says pleasantly, like he’s not a walking night terror but a normal person with a house and kids. “Derek is not yet here, but I’m glad you’re early. You can handle this for fifteen minutes or so until Derek arrives? I really need to go.” 

“I guess?” Stiles offers, trying to peek over Peter’s shoulder. 

“Good,” Peter says, already putting on his fancy jacket obviously way out of a teacher’s budget, just like everything else he owns and wears. “The girls are inside, feel free to anything you find in the kitchen.” 

He’s obviously intending to leave with that, but Stiles has seen babysitting in the movies, damn it. There’s more to it than this. “Any, uh. Any rules I should know?” 

Peter turns to him blankly, like he’s not sure who he’s talking to. Then he keeps walking, only throwing over his shoulder, “Don’t let them get anyone killed.” 

Stiles closes the door behind him, feeling dread. The house is quiet. He makes his way down the hallway until it leads him into a huge room that must be taking up most of the ground floor. The kitchen is half visible through an arch, the dining table is large enough to fit a dozen people comfortably and all the furniture is white. 

Modesty and Chastity - the living proof Peter is a sadist and an asshole - are both there. Stiles is not sure which girl is which but one is sitting calmly at the large table she can barely reach and the other one is watching a cartoon on the huge flat screen. 

“Hi,” Stiles says. 

Both girls turn to face him, sweet smiles on their face. They say, almost in sync, “Hi Stiles!” 

He’s not sure how they are so sure he’s Stiles but he’s charmed anyway. “What are you girls up to?” 

“Chase is making flowers and smiley faces,” says the one on the couch, turning back to watch her cartoon. Stiles has no idea if she’s talking about herself in the third person or about her sister. Or what that sentence even means. 

The other one adds, “Maddy is watching Stupid.”

Stupid, as far as Stiles can see from this angle, looks awfully lot like Scooby-Doo. More importantly, Stiles thinks he can now tell which girl is which. 

At least they have nicknames that are not terrible. 

Stiles decides it’s best to let them do their thing. They’re calm and busy, so he sits down on the couch and gets sucked into the Ghost Ship mystery, feeling his old crush on Velma come back full force. 

Derek finally arrives when they’re halfway into another mystery, the one about the Snow Beast. Stiles’ interest in Velma evaporates as soon as he turns to watch Derek come in because he’s wearing old, soft clothes and hasn’t bothered with his hair at all and the result is somehow devastating. 

Derek looks around the room. He sees Stiles first, nods, frowns at the screen and then widens his eyes in horror. “Chase, what are you doing?” 

“Making smiley faces and flowers, like Ms. Daisy,” the girl at the table says, unbothered. 

Stiles suddenly is bothered because Derek is practically running towards her, so he gets off the couch to see what’s so terrible. 

It takes a closer look at the papers Derek is hastily gathering to get it because Chase has been drawing smiley faces and flowers all over history papers. The student papers Peter took home to grade, presumably. Yep, that’s Stiles’ paper on the kunoichi network in feudal Japan and the grade he’s got for all that research is… an uneven four-petaled flower across the first page. 

“You know you are not allowed to do that,” Derek says, though he sounds more grumpy than strict. 

“Stiles said I can!” The girl shoots back, which. What?

“I did not!” 

Derek ignores him. “If Stiles told you to go jump off a cliff, would you do it?” 

It’s such a silly, mom thing to say. Chase squints up at Derek, “Small cliff or big cliff?” 

Well, that answers that. 

Derek puts the stack of papers on one of the high shelves in the huge white bookscase that’s taking up half a wall. “Maddy,” he says, making sure the stack is neat and doesn't slide off. “Turn that off. You know it gives you nightmares.” 

There is no answer so both Derek and Stiles look over. Maddy is not there anymore. The checkered tights she was wearing with her skirt are thrown haphazardly across the coach. The skirt itself is right where the living room is attached to the kitchen. 

“Hell no,” Derek yelps and takes after her. 

Stiles is a little slower to follow, picking up Maddy’s clothes and watching Chase for any sudden movements. The little girl is watching him with eyes wide and tearful, looking properly sorry. Stiles doesn’t trust her _at all_. 

In the backyard, Maddy is holding firmly onto the fence so Derek can’t carry her back inside. Stiles hurries over, thinking they should at least put a skirt on the kid since the neighbors are peering through the window already. 

He’s not even halfway across the yard when the door behind him slam shut. Stiles turns but all he can do is watch Chase through the glass as she turns the key. 

“What the...” 

“Front door!” Derek yells, doing this complicated thing of trying to decide if he should yank Maddy harder or drop her altogether. Stiles takes off running around the house, full speed, like it’s a matter of life and death. 

Well, it’s Peter’s kids. It might be. 

He gets there just in time, almost knocking Chase back. Terrified of what the little demon might do next, Stiles picks her up so she has to stay with him as he goes to let Derek in through the back door. 

“Everything was fine before you got here,” Stiles accuses though his teeth while Derek is making Maddy put her clothes back on. 

“Sure, _fine_ ,” Derek repeats disdainfully. 

“There were no rules,” Stiles hisses, distraught. “You did not warn me!” 

“When there are no rules, you use common sense,” Derek tells him, obviously getting that from his mom-folder that he’s prepared for babysitting nights. 

Stiles is about to tell him what exactly he thinks about common sense, rules and Hales in general when Chase turns her huge blue eyes at him. “Stiles, I’m hungry.” 

Shaken to his core, Stiles meets Derek’s eyes, “It’s like she’s _squeezing my soul_.” 

“More like eating it with a fork,” Derek mutters. “I got them, go get us something to eat?” 

“I am not moving an inch until you give me an extensive list of everything food-related you know about them both.” 

“I like pizza,” Maddy says. 

“I don’t like pizza,” Chase says. “But I like duck. And books.” 

“Eating books makes your arms and legs tingle,” Stiles informs her because she doesn’t make any sense, even for a kid her age. 

Chase giggles, “No, it doesn't.” 

“Yes, it does. It’s called lead poisoning and it attacks your brain.” 

She doesn’t believe him, clearly, and she rolls her tiny eyes like he’s the stupidest thing ever. “I don’t want to eat books anyway, Stiles. I want to eat cheese.” 

“I thought your wanted duck.” 

She brightens like a light bulb. “Duck!” 

“ _Pizza_ ,” Maddy cuts in sharply, clearly the normal one of the two, streaking tendencies and all. 

Chase follows with, “Pancakes!” 

This is going nowhere. Derek is biting his lower lip on a small smile, still fussing with Maddy’s clothes and Stiles comes to a decision. “I will make whatever Derek wants to eat.” 

“But whyyy?” Chase whines while Maddy turns her very disapproving gaze on her cousin. 

“Because I like Derek more than the two of you.” 

The girls look confused and insulted, like they’re so sure they’ve been leaving the very best impression. Derek stifles a laugh as Maddy pushes him away from herself with a foot, as if this is all his fault and he’s not in her good graces any longer. 

“Grilled cheese?” He says, eyes shiny as he looks up to make sure Stiles is okay with that suggestion. 

Stiles nods, says seriously, “With a lot of chili peppers?” 

“And broccoli,” Derek plays along. “Don’t forget the broccoli.” 

“That’s gross, Uncle Derek,” Chase objects as Stiles leaves them behind on the couch. 

“I’m not your uncle.” 

“But you call Peter uncle.” 

Derek informs her, patiently, “That’s because Peter _is_ my uncle.” 

“So you’re my uncle,” Chase concludes. 

Stiles laughs to himself, looking through the kitchen in search of the things he needs as Derek tries to explain the fallacy in her logic. 

They have dinner and then Derek breaks out craft supplies and paints in a total deliberate disregard of Peter’s white furniture and everything gets so much better. They play all sorts of games. Stiles gets to look through the giant bookshelf. Derek can actually draw well - houses and trees, horses and spaceships - he can draw anything and everything except people and it’s hilarious when he tries. The girls insist on putting ‘makeup’ on Stiles’ face. They call the yellow and purple water paint on his cheeks ‘blush’ but he calls it war paint because babysitting is a battle, not a pageant. 

When Peter comes home a few hours later, Chase doesn’t even raise her head from where she’s making a birthday card for herself to inform him, “Peter, Stiles likes Uncle Derek best.” 

Derek says, without any hope, “I’m not your uncle.” 

Peter unbuttons his coat, nodding, “Thank you for telling me, Chastity, but I’m afraid you are the last person in Beacon Hills to figure that out.” 

Stiles stands there, horrified and hoping the stupid paint will cover the way he just flushed in embarrassment down to his _waist_. 

“I don’t need to pay you, right?” Peter continues, as if not aware he’s the Satan. “Talia promised me.” 

“Pay me by never calling me to babysit again,” Derek tells him, picks up his jacket. 

“Bye, Stiles!” Chase calls when he tries to follow Derek down the hall. He makes a mistake and turns back, only to see her standing up on the chair, both hands in the air like she’s expecting to be lifted or hugged or something. 

Helpless against her pout, Stiles goes back to her. She hugs him tight, “I’ll miss you, Uncle Stiles.” 

“I wish I could say the same, Aunt Chastity.” 

She laughs, lets go of him, “I’m not your aunt, stupid.” 

Maddy bursts out from behind the table, eyes shiny and gleeful, “You forgot to give us broccoli!” 

“I did not,” Stiles lies to her, face as serious as he can make it. “I just chopped it into really small pieces so you didn’t notice.” 

The kids look suitably upset and betrayed when he leaves the room finally. 

Derek is waiting for him on the front stairs, smiling a little. 

“Well that was a smashing success,” Stiles tells him. “Your aunts adore me.” 

Derek rolls his eyes, “It’s just because you let them call you Princess.” 

“I’ve no idea why anyone would name a male horse Princess,” Stiles agrees happily, though his knees still hurt from carrying the girls around on all fours. “But I make the best Princess.” 

Derek steps closer and lifts his hand to rub at the dry pain on Stiles’ cheek. Some of it is peeling off, but not easily. Stiles says, “Ouch”, and his voice is low and rustling.

“Babysitting in my family is a competition,” Derek quietly tells him and Stiles tries really hard to focus on the words instead of how the fingers brush against his ear as he keeps on trying to peel the paint. “The person who manages most hours in a row without calling for backup or having a nervous breakdown gets an extra present for Christmas.” 

“Neat. How’d we do?” 

Derek smiles and it’s absolutely devastating up close. “I think I might actually be in the running this year.” 

The porch light turns off, and a second later, the music starts. It’s ‘Kiss the Girl’ from Little Mermaid and by the horrified look on Derek’s face when he drops his hand, he knows it too even though it’s still just the intro music. They both look back at the house where they can see Peter and the girls standing just behind the frosted glass of the front door, their silhouettes visible in the light coming from deep inside the house. 

Stiles digs into his pocket to get his car keys. “Let’s, yeah, let’s never do this again. “ Shit, that sounds bad, like it’s Derek’s fault. “Not spending - not doing chores, we should definitely do that, together, just not…” 

“No babysitting for Peter?” Derek says, some of the color returning to his face.

“Yeah. That.” 

Derek nods and Stiles escapes the scene as soon as he can. He feels like something is chasing after him all the way home, until he’s safely inside the house. 

The hallway mirror shows him a vaguely familiar face. His right cheek is yellow and his left cheek is red from where Derek was scratching the paint off. His eyes are a little wide and wild. 

He calls Scott. “Switch chores with me.” 

“Which ones?” Scott asks mildly, so that must not explicitly go against Lydia’s rules. 

“The ones we’re supposed to do for Derek’s mother. These people are terrifying. They are _traumatising_. Especially the youngest ones but also Peter and Derek’s mom.” 

“You’re just trying too hard to leave an impression,” Scott says. 

“Also the ones we’re supposed to do for dad,” Stiles soldiers on through Scott’s skepticism. “Derek has some issues with him, I don’t even know, but I’m pretty sure he’s gonna start crying next time they are in the same room together.” 

Scott laughs. “Alright, I get it, it’s too early for the in-laws. My mom’s got a few coupons, I can let you do those?” 

“Done!” 

“And, uh, I got Harris?”

That’s a much harder sell. Stiles makes himself imagine Chase’s face as she’s locking them out in the backyard and says, “Alright.” 

“Wow,” Scott breathes. “They did a number on you.” 

“You have no idea.” 

Scott should have an idea - someone should know the source of Stiles’ many future nightmares - so he tells them about what babysitting for Peter looks like. He is not appreciative when Scott tells him that most kids that age are hard to handle.

 

****

Next day during lunch, Stiles takes Scott by the hem of his shirt and directs him toward the table where the baseball players are sitting. They look suspicious but not actively hostile - which actually means Scott’s plan is working. Huh. 

“Give me the coupon counterfoils,” Stiles tells Derek, privately thinking the guy should use a lot less hair gel. Not even Disney’s reimagining of Hades had tips this high. 

Derek digs for them wordlessly as Scott and Isaac share a smile and some words. Stiles passes them right over to Scott and gives Derek the ones for Melissa and Harris. Derek looks them over, mouth just a tiniest bit open. 

“How did you…?” 

“I sold my soul,” Stiles tells him cheerfully, sits down where the crowd actually made some space for him and Scott. The world as their two teams know it might be ending but the upcoming dystopia doesn’t look quite as dreary as the young adult movies want them to believe. “You owe me so much, you have no idea.” 

“Who did we get?” Derek asks carefully as Scott follows Stiles’ lead and slots himself between Isaac and a beady-eyed baseball player Stiles doesn’t know. 

“Scott’s mom, which is great.” He’s done chores for Melissa before since he’s spent so much time at their house, she’s a star. “And, um, Harris.” 

“Stiles, Harris hates you. This can’t be better than my mom.” 

It totally is. “But he likes you, so if he tries to poison me you will still be around to call an ambulance. Or not, if you so choose. But I remind you, I have sold my soul - to Scott, which I know does not look like a big deal - but I sold it so you don’t get an ulcer from having to spend time around dad - who is _totally_ the boogeyman you’re making him to be, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise - so say thank you and call the damn ambulance if you have to.” 

“Eat your lunch, Stiles,” Derek tells him once he finally gets that sentence out. 

Boyd worlessly offers Stiles his juice box across the table. It’s grape, which is yucky and gross, but Boyd is in very many photos on Derek’s social media so Stiles takes is with a grateful nod and offers his apple in return. 

Boyd takes and give it to his girlfriend. She smiles at Stiles, with a lot of teeth. 

It’s a good day at school.

 

*** 

Now Stiles gets a proper greeting and even a few words here and there from Derek (and doesn’t run away from it) when they cross paths but he’s still looking forward to Friday. Friday, when he’ll be alone with Derek. 

Well, with Derek and _Harris._  

But Harris likes Derek more than he hates Stiles, so he just sends them to clean his storage room. He often makes students do that for detention, like he got tips from Snape or something, so there’s barely anything to do. Derek dutifully moves the gross jars and equipment to wipe underneath them and Stiles is sitting on the workbench, bored out of his head. 

They were talking about baseball for a bit, unusually comfortable in the brightly lit backroom, but Stiles has gone off tangent since then and Derek has kept cleaning. 

“The scavenger hunt is next week,” Stiles tells Derek at some point, and finally gets his full attention. 

“Yeah? Are we doing it?” 

“Nah. We have to help set it up, so there’s no point. And we have to help with the refreshments afterwards.” 

Derek snorts, “Don’t make that face.” 

“What face?” 

“The ‘world’s not fair’ face. I was there, remember? This is all completely your fault.” 

“It’s not my fault, it’s Scott’s fault. He wanted to use the locker room in peace or whatever.” 

“Yet he never mentioned a scavenger hunt,” Derek says, getting up to his feet. The room is really not that big and he’ll have to ask Stiles to move sooner or later to get to that part of it. “Or chore coupons. Or…” 

Stiles interrupts him, waving his hands, “It’s working, though! Look at us, having a conversation. We’ve never even talked before.” 

“You’re the one talking, I’m the one doing all the work,” Derek says, but he doesn’t sound put out. He nudges Stiles’ knee. “Get off, come on. Let me finish.” 

Stiles stays put. “But we’d be done here so quickly if I worked too.” 

“Exactly,” Derek says, pushes at his knee again. 

Stiles lifts his leg and traps Derek’s hand underneath it, and wiggles his eyebrows, “Exactly. And who wants that, huh?” 

The fingers under his thigh twitch but Derek doesn’t try to get his hand free. It’d be easy, but he doesn’t _try_ and suddenly this all looks much bigger than the plans Stiles had when he got out of the bed that morning. 

Derek uses his trapped hand as the leverage to lean closer.  “You know, if we take this any slower, Harris will come to check up on us.” 

Stiles will address all three questionable points of that sentence just as soon as Derek stops smirking like that. It’s not a mocking smirk, it’s easy and flirty and very close to his face. Stiles opens his mouth for some extra oxygen but he’s got no words, not yet. 

Derek’s mouth straightens so he can roll his eyes. Then he in one single fluid motion frees his hand, slides Stiles off the bench by the hips and pulls him away from it. As quickly as he grabs, he lets go like nothing happened but now Stiles knows how warm and large his hands are and… 

And seriously. That smirk was flirty. 

Stiles clears his throat, tries, “Manhandling is the stuff of third dates at best.” 

“I’m counting this as the fourth date, actually”, Derek tells him, more than a half of his focus on wiping away the imprint of Stiles’ ass on the bench. “Go get the bucket so we can mop the floor.” 

The bossy tone raises his hackles alright, but Stiles leaves the room without another word to follow the order anyway because he’s sure Derek is joking. _Derek is joking._ The world is round, coffee tastes like ass and Derek has a sense of humor that he’s decided to unleash on on Stiles' unsuspecting heart. Everything is fine, no one is actually dating. 

Whatever that weird mood has been is gone by the time Stiles is back and he mops the floor because that’s better than not having anything to do but watch Derek for clues. 

They’re done and on their way home as quickly as Stiles predicted. On the main staircase, Stiles says, “So. Melissa’s tomorrow?” 

Derek is frowning and watching him carefully as he nods.

Stiles runs away by walking very quickly to his car without a backward glance.

 

***

Melissa is maybe, possibly, _definitely_ in cahoots with her meddling son. Shit. 

Well, technically, she just calls Stiles and tells him, “You’ve got the key, so just let yourselves in since we’re both working and do that thing you do with my cupboards, okay?” 

And Stiles says, because he’s good like that, “Do you want us to bring you some dinner to work when we finish?” 

Melissa asks, hopefully, “Something warm? It’s been so chilly these days.” 

But all this means that Stiles is supposed to spend time with Derek - their fifth date, haha, not funny - at Scott’s house and they are going to be alone. 

Derek is quiet and tense as Stiles drives him to Scott’s house, until he remembers to mention this once they get to the two-story house engulfed in darkness. Derek gets out a deep sigh of unashamed relief. 

“What? It’s just Melissa, she’s really laid back.” 

Derek watches him pick out the key off the chain. “Everyone knows you and Scott are basically brothers. I thought she’d do something like your father did when I met him.” 

“What, shake your hand?”

“I don’t know what it looked like to you, but I spent days looking over my shoulder in fear he’d shoot me in the butt from a bush somewhere.” 

Drama doesn’t really suit Derek but it’s still awesome to watch. They enter the silent house but the light in the hallway doesn’t work when Stiles tries to turn it on. 

“Huh,” Stiles says, trying to feel his way down the hallway to the living room. The house is a little way off so the street lights are far and not too helpful from this angle. “Anyway, dad is just messing with you, mostly because you’re stupid enough to show fear. Try to, like, not act like prey just once when you’re in the same room with him and he’ll get bored quickly.” 

The living room light doesn’t work either but the signal light on the TV set is bright red. Stiles tries it on and it’s working. The light won’t budge. 

“Parents usually love me,” Derek says petulantly in the blue television glow.

Stiles wishes he doesn’t get all the things that implies. He says tightly, getting his phone out, “Well, maybe it’s all that parents-hopping that makes him dislike you. Maybe he wanted to be special.” 

“Stiles…” Derek says, stepping closer but Melissa is already picking up her phone. 

“There is something up with your lights,” Stiles informs her immediately.

“Yeah, it’s,” Melissa says, a little muffled, “It’s a blown fuse or something. I've called an electrician - that nice older guy from across the street? He’ll come check it out in the morning. Sorry, I forgot to tell you.” 

Stiles sighs, “We can’t fix your kitchen in the dark, you know.”

  
“That’s fine, Stiles. You boys can just watch television or something, just please bring me some dinner around ten and we’ll call it done? Okay? Listen, I have to go…” 

“Right. See you later.” 

As soon as the call is over, he turns on the flashlight on his phone and takes a better look at the ceiling. There is no bulb where there should be one. It’s possible Melissa removed it because something went wrong but… but frankly, she did not sound nearly worried enough. Fixing shit like this can be expensive and Melissa doesn’t have enough income to just shrug it off. 

He appreciates hers and Scott’s effort and ingenuity but it’s kind of embarrassing. And Derek also seems like he’s been developing some form of Stockholm Stiles Syndrome. 

“I’ll take you back, you don’t need to be here. We can’t do anything and I can take Melissa her dinner alone later, it’s fine.” 

The stubborn tilt of Derek’s chin is back from that first afternoon they sent together. “No.” 

“Derek, come on. You could be home right now. Or, it’s Saturday, you could go out with friends or whatever.” 

Derek lowers himself on the couch, “I’m fine here.” 

Stiles gives up, lowers himself into the other half of the couch. He’s not stupid, okay? He’s not blind, deaf or oblivious. It’s impossible to misunderstand or ignore all the hints. He’s getting the picture and it’s sort of beautiful. 

But he’s scared. 

“Scott has an old playstation,” he offers after a few minutes. 

Derek looks over at him in half-dark, face unreadable. He says, softly, “Okay.” 

But it’s not okay and Stiles knows it’s his fault.

 

**** 

Stiles goes back to ignoring Derek. Their paths cross anyway, a few time, and they say hi but it’s awkward and painful for everyone who happens to be around. 

On Saturday, Lydia opens a color-coded map of Beacon Hills when they are both in front of her, silent. The hunt is werewolf-themed, because of course it is. Werewolves are a thing for the town because the biggest tourist attraction they have is a set of old - allegedly pre-historic, what a joke - drawings in one of the caves north of town. The drawings show wolves and humans in some truly indecent positions that make you ask questions at the age of seven about wolf anatomy that even your teacher mom can’t answer. 

Anyway, one of the clues is in the movie theater, which Lydia somehow forced to make a cheap-entrance matinee of old werewolf movies. Some of the clues are out in the Preserve. 

Derek grabs the clues that are supposed to be set in the Preserve and says, avoiding Stiles’ eyes, “I’ll take care of this.” 

If he’d hoped Stiles would not let him, he severely underestimated his cowardice. Stiles nods and Derek leaves on his own, for the first time since the madness started. 

Lydia hisses at him, “It’s embarrassing that I even know your name.” 

Stiles perks up a little, “You do?” 

She rolls her eyes and sends him to hide clues in the theatre, under the certain seats.

The day goes like this but then the evening comes and Derek and Stiles have to pour too-bitter lemonade for people who finished their hunt and also the random people who had nothing better to do on a cold Saturday evening.

The atmosphere is positively chilly which, as it turns out, is much worse than awkward. Derek won’t look at him. Everything he says sounds forced out and grudging. He’s actually upset. 

Jesus. They are having a fight and no one’s even been yelling. 

Both familiar and unfamiliar people come to get drinks, but Stiles doesn’t feel like smiling. Or actually making sure they are holding their cups before he’s done serving them, which results in quite a few sugary, sticky spills. Coach looks cross though that might be because there’s no alcohol in the lemonade. Melissa looks tired and asks for extra sugar. Peter Hale comes up with two small figures in orange dresses following him like ducks. 

Maddy is taller than Chase, it’s obvious now that they’re standing next to one another. They are both looking around with eyes bright and exited, and even though they are scary and scarring, Siles is kind of happy to see them. 

“I have a proposal for you, boys,” Peter says. 

“No.” 

“Now, Derek, don’t be like that.” 

Derek leans heavily on the stand, hands flat on the sticky surface and glares at his uncle in a way Stiles has sort of honestly forgotten he could do. His posture is so stiff it looks painful, so Stiles clears his throat, “What, um, what kind of proposal?”

At the sound of his voice, Chase turns away from the colorful lights Lydia used to disperse the gloom of the place, “Stiles!” 

“Hello, Chase. Maddy.” Maddy glances at him long enough that he knows he’s heard him, that’s all. “You girls having fun?” 

“You didn’t come back to see us,” Chase complains. “Don’t you love us?” 

“Er,” Stiles says, glances at Derek. Nope, no mercy there. “I was supposed to come back and see you?” 

“Dad said you would.” 

“Which brings me to my point,” Peter says with a nod to his daughter, apparently thanking her on that smooth introduction. “If you two babysit for me every Friday till the end of the school year, I will give you both an A in history.” 

“I already have an A,” Stiles says, not liking this one itzy bit. 

Peter raises a single eyebrow, “Do you?” 

The proposal sounds more and more like blackmail the longer Stiles is taking to come up with an answer. He’s not even remotely sure a guaranteed A in history would be worth it. 

Derek snaps, “Go away, Peter.” 

Peter hums thoughtfully, “Bad timing? I can come back later.” 

“Go away or I’ll call mom.” 

That works, not that Stiles is surprised. Peter says, “Alright, don’t bite my head off. I’ll catch you after you guys make up.” 

Peter doesn’t even glance at his daughter's yet they dutifully follow him as he starts walking away. They do wave Stiles and Derek goodbye though. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, talking directly to Stiles for the first time that day. He’s keeping his eyes lowered, but the pained grimace is still visible. “He keeps, uh, insinuating…” 

Stiles interrupts him, “Everyone keeps, _uh, insinuating_. It’s never bothered me.” 

Derek doesn’t get an opportunity to answer because a fresh batch of people ended their quest and now want drinks. It doesn’t matter that much because he’s less tense, suddenly, not as cold and unfriendly - he even offers Stiles a small smile when they brush their elbows together at one point. 

A flock of girls from the school head their way. Stiles hisses in Derek’s direction, “Peggy.” 

Derek rolls his eyes, “There is _no_ Peggy.” 

“Yeah? What do you call her, then?” Stiles points at one of the girls in the group with his chin. 

Derek looks up, waves a little at the girl, “Paige, actually.” 

“Paige, of course,” Stiles says dryly because Derek is being an obtuse ass. The girls come to grab refreshments. Paige smiles tightly at Derek but doesn’t say anything to him. 

“That - didn’t really work out between us,” Derek tells him once they’re gone, voice low and confidential. “It’s embarrassing. I kept posting pictures of us together on Facebook because it kept random people from asking me out and now she thinks I can’t get over her or something. All her friends keep giving me this pitying look whenever they see me.” 

That’s all sorts of hilarious and it actually sounds like the type of self-sabotage Stiles would cook up for himself. Stiles is about ready to say something without laughing when Derek actually freezes next to him, hisses, “Your father is coming over here.” 

“Oh my God,” Stiles says, relieved that Derek still cares that much if dad likes him or not. He hasn’t managed to destroy this yet, and that is how it’s going to stay. “I’ll be right back. Stay here.” 

Dad is giving him a fake-serious nod when Stiles steps in front of him. “Alright, this has to stop. What’s it gonna take?” 

Dad smirks slowly, deliberately, like the worst type of Slytherin there is. “You know my price, son. It never changes.” 

“You are a ruthless individual,” Stiles tells him, but it has no effect whatsoever. “Fine. Red meat, Sunday nights.” 

“Oh, son,” dad shakes his head, sadly, disappointed. 

“Sundays and Thursdays,” Stiles offers but dad just keeps waiting. Shit this is hard and Stiles wants dad to stop torturing Derek, he does, but… “Damn it, I don’t care about him more than I care about you.” 

That strikes home. Dad hides his shamed face quickly behind a sharp nod. “Fine. Sundays and Thursdays. You’re cooking on Sundays?” Stiles nods, glad for that olive branch. It means he can make plenty of salad and make sure the bread is whole grain. “I’ll behave.” 

Stiles goes back to the stand, dad in tow. 

“Hello, Derek,” dad says, cheerfully. “Cold evening, huh?” 

Derek glances at Stiles, confused with the lack of whatever dad was projecting at him before. “Uh, yeah. My hands are freezing. Wish Lydia gave us the tea stand to mind.” 

Dad makes an insulted face, like every time anyone mentions tea. “Dad doesn’t appreciate tea much,” Stiles says for Derek’s benefit. 

Dad shrugs, “It doesn’t really do anything.” 

He wanders off without taking a cup from them. Derek looks wrong-footed but not upset or disturbed, “What just happened?” And then, because he’s a smart guy, “What did you do?” 

“I sold my father out for you,” Stiles announces dramatically. “So when he gets his first heart attack, I will call you and I fully expect you to sit with me in the hospital until he gets better and hold my hand.” 

“Alright,” Derek easily agrees. “Though I do hope we don’t have to wait for your father to actually get a heart attack. He looks healthy to me, that might take years.” 

 _Morbid flirting_ , Stiles thinks, unable to suppress the grin on his face. This might actually be meant to be. 

People come and go and the night gets colder. Lydia has someone else from the teams on the clean-up and Stiles is happy enough to go home. His home might be sadly Derek-less but at least they are in a good place again. 

“Meatloaf,” dad says instead of good _night_ but that just means Stiles can cheat a little bit on the meat so they both go to bed happy.

 

* 

Stiles gets a phone call on Saturday night. It can only be dad, calling to make sure Stiles is not up to anything, so he answers without really looking at the screen. 

“How’s the _conference_?” he says without saying hi and he makes sure he infuses the word ‘conference’ with enough insinuation to make an elephant fall over. 

“Stiles?” the phone says, and it’s not dad on the other side. 

“Uh, sorry. I thought it was my dad.” The phone falls silent so Stiles adds, “Derek?” 

“Yeah. I’m sorry, I know it’s late,” it’s actually only half past ten, Derek is way too well mannered for a teenager but Stiles doesn’t interrupt him to tell him that. “But Cora is not answering her phone. Could you come pick me up?” 

That sounds like a lot more fun than the Wikipedia page Stiles is currently on, so he’s getting his warm hoodie before he even asks, “Sure. Where are you?”

“On the parking lot of the train station,” Derek says - it’s no wonder he needs someone to pick him up, that’s on the other side of the mostly abandoned industrial area. The neighborhood is as bad as it can get in Beacon Hills, which is not that much, really, but the place is eerie at best during the day and actually quite creepy after dark. “Laura just went back to college. I was supposed to take her car back.” 

“It won’t start?” 

Derek sighs, “She took her keys with her.” He doesn’t sound annoyed enough, not until Stiles starts laughing. “It’s not funny.” 

“You only say that because you’re alone on the train station at night. Don’t worry, though. I’m on my way.” 

He’s already locking the front door, actually. 

“I’m not alone. There are two other people here with me, just… passing by.” 

All joking aside, Stiles is sure Derek sounds a little scared. “Listen, I have to hang up because if any of the deputies catch me on the phone while driving, dad will set my license on fire.” 

“I’m fine,” Derek says because they apparently know each other well enough now that he can tell Stiles is worried. 

“Just, stay in a well-lit area and glare at people as hard as you can and they’ll stay away.” 

Derek snorts at him and ends the call. 

Beacon Hill is not that large and the industrial area has zero traffic so Stiles is at the train station in less than fifteen minutes. Derek is in the parking lot, which is not well-lit, and he’s too busy leaning against an old Toyota to glare at anyone - seriously, he’s inviting trouble. 

He lifts his head when Stiles stops nearby

“That’s Laura’s car?” he asks because it’s not in a great condition and it’s a far cry from Derek’s car.

“She saved up the money to buy it herself.” Derek looks exhausted and half-asleep when he gets into the passenger’s seat, which at least explains why he’s not more annoyed with the situation. He doesn’t have the necessary energy. “I hope someone steals it overnight.” 

Huh, maybe annoyance doesn’t take that much energy after all. 

Derek closes his eyes against the glaring street lights and Stiles leaves him to it - but then Derek’s actually asleep, forehead against the window. It seems cruel to wake him up in a way Stiles doesn’t remember he’s ever felt before so he drives slowly and makes detours before finally taking them both back home. 

Derek opens his eyes as soon as the engine shuts, confused and blinking away sleep. 

“I, uh, I don’t actually know how to find your house,” Stiles says, and it’s _true_. He’s not sure which of the three turns off the main road he is supposed to take because when you show up randomly at people’s houses they sometimes call his dad. 

Derek shrugs, opens the door. “Your dad is not home?” 

“How do you know that?”

“You thought he was the one calling you,” Derek explains as Stiles unlock the front door. “Conference?” 

“The third one this year,” Stiles snorts. “Yeah, _right._ ” 

He unlocks the house and walks inside but Derek’s hesitating at the doorstep, looking more awake, but troubled. “Stiles, we need to talk.” 

“Um, what about?” He gets a pointed look for going through the trouble of playing stupid so he changes tactics. “No, we don’t.”

“I really think that we do,” Derek says, his face a grimace of discomfort. “Or at least, I just need you to tell me if you’re even really…” He trails off and it’s painful to watch him as he shakes himself and tries again, “You keep blowing hot and cold on me…” 

This time he stops because Stiles is in his personal space, close enough to feel that last word on his skin. “There’s no - blowing cold.” Really, they are close enough for him to feel Derek relax even before he puts his hands to steady himself on Derek’s shoulders. “You know this, otherwise you wouldn’t call me to pick you up in the middle of the night like you don’t have five hundred friends. But since you need to hear it…” 

Derek doesn’t seem to need to hear it that badly, seeing that he’s interrupting Stiles’ attempt at grand intentions proclamation with his mouth. The kiss is firm and lingering, more about making the point than anything, at least until Stiles shifts a little - then they go from the point to foreplay in seconds, all wet warmth and eager pushy hands. 

“There’s no blowing cold, huh,” Derek says, eyes shiny like he’s smiling before he buries his mouth in the crook of Stiles’ neck.

“No,” Stiles says between gasps, acutely aware of the teeth against his skin. “Just - blowing hot.” 

Derek removes his mouth to give him a self-satisfied smirk, like it’s somehow his doing that Stiles said that. “That’s the second time you’ve offered…”

Stiles uses his rather firm grip on Derek’s ass to drag him inside, grinning.

 

***

 

On Monday at school, Lydia takes one look at them, says, ‘Finally’ and cancels the rest of the events except for the ball. Jackson pretends he knows what he did to make her forgive him and Greenberg sobs a little in relief, then decides he might be better at baseball and switches teams. 

Scott is so smug, he almost falls off his bike. 

Getting an A in history is a little harder because Peter swears his daughters love Stiles more than anyone else in the family. However, it turns out that the extra Christmas present for babysitting for the Hales is the keys to the remote luxury winter cabin for a whole month which helps a lot in making the decision.

Derek helps him plan, both the activities for the Friday nights with Maddy and Chase and how they’re going to spend their winter vacation. He’s very distracting, mostly on purpose, so Stiles usually ends up finishing the majority of those plans on his own, late at night 

It’s worth the hassle.


End file.
